Phoenix Rising
by CaroH
Summary: A catastrophe hits the garrison.
1. Chapter 1

This is just a short story that insisted on being written. It probably won't be more than two or three chapters.

 **Phoenix Rising**

 **Chapter One**

Was it the heat or the noise that caused the most pain? D'Artagnan had been close to an explosion before, throwing himself bodily as far away as he could to land heavily on his front. He'd been badly shaken and bruised but otherwise unhurt. This time there had been no warning. The force of the blast lifted him from his feet, hurling him backwards through the air before dropping him hard on his back several feet away from where he'd started. His head hit the ground before lolling to one side as his senses deserted him. Burning wood and shards of glass fell around and on top of him, burying him from view and shielding him from the carnage that surrounded him.

Athos, Porthos and Aramis had been no more than five hundred yards from the garrison when they heard the explosion. Each exchanged an alarmed glance with his comrades before spurring their horses forward in the direction of the blast. It was only when they turned a corner that they realised it was their own home that had been affected. Other people were already rushing in to help, some stopping in their tracks, blood draining from their faces as they took in the scene before them.

"Aramis, help the wounded," Athos ordered, sliding quickly from his horse. "Porthos, you're with me. We need to get the fire under control or the whole place will burn."

Porthos nodded and headed for the well. "Buckets," he yelled at the townsfolk who had ventured inside. Men ran to do his bidding as he hauled up the first bucket of water. Athos organised a line of people stretching from the well to as close to the fire as they could get, taking the most dangerous position at the front where the heat lashed his face. Thick black smoke and drifting ash invaded his lungs causing him to cough harshly. Two other musketeers staggered over, covered in dirt and disorientated but seemingly unhurt. They followed his example so that three lines of people stood ready to fight the fire. It took longer than Athos would have liked but eventually the water started flowing, buckets passed from hand to hand and water thrown onto the hungry flames.

Despite their efforts the fire showed no sign of abating then, as if in answer to his silent prayers, he felt the first drops of rain fall. It quickly became a deluge, the clouds dumping their moisture on the earth. He swiped wet hair out of his eyes and ordered a halt to their efforts. "We need to get the wounded under cover," he said. "Use the refectory. It's far enough away from the seat of the fire to be safe."

The fire, confined to the armory, continued to burn sluggishly but the danger of it spreading had lessened. He set two men to watch it with orders to contain any areas that looked like they were flaring up again. He wiped a hand across his soot stained brow and looked around. When Porthos joined him he asked the question that was seared on his brain. "Where's d'Artagnan?"

The first man Aramis reached was dead, lying on his back with his open eyes staring unseeing at the sky. His face was burnt almost beyond recognition and he'd lost an arm in the blast. Aramis forced down the bile that rose in his throat and made the sign of the cross. Other bodies littered the yard, some moving, others not. Some were no longer intact, having been caught by the full force of the explosion. It reminded him of a blood-soaked battlefield.

He wasn't the only one trying to help. To his relief he saw Captain Treville straightening from where he had been examining one of the casualties. Aramis caught his eye, seeing only numb disbelief.

"Help me," he called to two of the townsfolk who had crowded into the garrison. They immediately hurried over to his side, looking pale. He heard a groan and quickly moved to the side of a man with burns to both legs.

"Pascal," Aramis said. He turned to his helpers. "Find something to use as a stretcher." He knelt down and took hold of Pascal's hand. "Help is on its way, my friend," he said soothingly.

"Hurts," the young man moaned.

"I know. We will get you something for the pain." When the rain started Pascal shouted out in pain. Aramis hunched over him to try and shield his legs from the water that pounded down. He looked around, trying to decide where best to take him. The infirmary was too close to the fire, which he could see was now dying down thanks to the rain.

The men returned carrying a door that had clearly been blasted from its hinges. "Lift him gently," Aramis instructed," and take him there." He pointed to the door leading to the refectory which stood on the other side of the courtyard from the fire. "I will join you shortly."

He counted six bodies as he made his way through the carnage. Jacques, the stable boy stumbled towards him, his left arm held protectively close to his chest. Tears were streaming down his face and he was very pale.

"Let me see," Aramis said gently. He took hold of the boy's arm eliciting a pained gasp. "It's a clean break," he said with relief. "Find someplace to sit down and don't move it. I will be there as soon as I can to splint it."

He caught hold of the next person who passed. "Go to the palace and get help. We need Dr. Lemay and as many medical supplies as they can spare." He looked around, finally gauging the scale of the crisis. The fire was burning itself out, helped by the rain that was now falling steadily. He caught a glimpse of Athos and Porthos standing close to the ruined armory, deep in conversation.

He took a shuddering breath, his throat clogging with smoke, and began to cough. He bent forward, resting his hands on his legs, tears leaking from his eyes. Once the fit has passed he straightened and continued on to the next body. He could see that everyone who was alive was receiving aid although there was little they could do for the burns until the doctor arrived.

When he reached the next body he took hold of his crucifix, murmured a short prayer and sketched the sign of the cross on the man's forehead. A group of men approached to offer aid.

"Take the bodies to the infirmary and send for a priest."

He reached Treville who was down on his knees by the side of a musketeer whose chest had been severely lacerated by flying splinters of wood. Aramis reached down and rested a hand on the Captain's shoulder. Treville looked up and gave a wan smile.

"Leave him to me, Captain. I have sent for aid and…for a priest."

"How many?"

"At least six dead and many more badly wounded." He hunkered down and began to cut away the tattered remnants of the man's shirt so that he could get a proper look at the injuries.

"The fire." Treville looked towards the armory as if only now remembering the cause of the death and destruction.

Water dripped off the brim of Aramis' hat and trickled down the back of his neck causing him to shudder. "Athos has it in hand. This rain will stop it spreading. Do you know what happened?" The musketeer under his hands bit his lip to prevent a whimper from escaping. "Painful but not life threatening," Aramis reassured him.

"There was an explosion in the armory. Why, I don't know. I was in my office when it happened. The whole building shook."

"We need to get all the wounded inside. If you could find Athos and Porthos for me?" He helped his patient to sit up slowly and then aided him to find his feet. With the wounded man's arm slung around his shoulders they began to make their way towards the refectory. Porthos caught up with him as they reached the door.

"Have you seen d'Artagnan?" There was a note of barely controlled panic in Porthos' voice.

"He was here?"

"He was in charge of training some of the newest recruits."

Aramis looked around frantically. "He must be hurt or he'd have been helping with the wounded." He couldn't bring himself to even think that their youngest brother might be dead. He grabbed hold of Porthos' sleeve. "I must tend to the wounded. Find him."

Tbc


	2. Chapter 2

It turns out this might be a longer story than I thought. I can't believe the number of reviews for the first chapter as well as all those who chose to follow and/or favourite it. Your support is enormously encouraging.

 **Phoenix Rising**

 **Chapter Two**

Athos and Porthos stood in the middle of the courtyard. Their senses were overcome by the sight of injured and dead bodies, large patches of blood and the screams and moans of the wounded. The air was full of ash and smoke, drifting down to clog noses and lungs, making breathing a trial. Debris lay everywhere, glass crunching underfoot as they methodically began conducting their search.

"Maybe he wasn't 'ere," Porthos said hopefully after they had traversed the length of the yard.

"He was here," Athos replied somberly. "Practice was scheduled to last all afternoon and I saw a couple of the recruits amongst…the dead."

"Doesn't mean he's dead," Porthos admonished.

"I know." A sick feeling coiled in the pit of Athos' stomach like a snake waiting for its prey. "There is one place we haven't looked." He pointed to a large mound of stone and wood which lay only yards away from the ruined armoury. It was several feet wide and piled high with rubble.

Porthos sucked in a shocked breath. "We'll need help to shift it."

Athos beckoned over a group of men, a mix of Musketeers and townsfolk. "We believe one of our comrades is trapped under there." He could see by their appalled looks that they didn't give much hope of finding anyone alive but they moved willingly enough to start the laborious process of clearing the area.

Porthos heaved a large chunk of stone away from the edge, placing it out of the way. They had to be careful not to impede those moving the wounded and dead however frantic they might be to tear their way through the rubble that could be separating them from their little brother. Athos lifted a substantial length of wood with no care for his own safety. A shard of glass cut through the leather of his glove as if it were butter, nicking the skin of his hand. He barely noticed as he concentrated on moving the next piece, and then the next.

TMTMTM

"Drink this." Aramis held the cup to Pascal's mouth. The young man had finally stopped screaming and now lay with his mouth slack and eyes lidded. Aramis knew that the silence meant that shock was setting in and that could be just as deadly as the burns. The leg injuries were severe and, even if Pascal survived, he would be left with extensive scarring and deformity. He might, Aramis thought fatalistically, prefer to be dead.

Pascal obediently drained the pain draught. Aramis patted him reassuringly on the shoulder and deliberately kept his tone light. "Dr. Lemay will be here soon. Be brave."

He poured another cup and moved to the next man. "Gerard, how's the arm?"

"Hurts like hell," Gerard said through gritted teeth. He was a twenty year veteran, having fought in the infantry before joining the Musketeers. He was a good soldier who was well regarded by his comrades. Now, his face was deeply lined with pain and his normally suntanned skin held an ashen hue.

Aramis nodded sympathetically and handed over the cup. Gerard's arm from shoulder to finger tips was scorched black by the fire. The smell of burnt flesh invaded Aramis' nose and he had to swallow several times to stave off a feeling of nausea.

Gerard downed the pain medication and lay back. "Reckon my days as a Musketeer are over," he said bitterly.

"You don't know that, my friend."

"I'm not a fool, Aramis." Tears of pain sprang to his eyes. "I can't see there being any way to save my arm." He closed his eyes and turned his head away.

Aramis bowed his head, accepting the assessment. It was almost inevitable that Lemay would have to amputate to prevent gangrene from setting in.

There were at least a dozen wounded, most beyond Aramis' skill to heal. He made sure they all had some medication for the pain and fretted about the delay in Dr. Lemay's arrival. He stood for a moment to survey the scene with a sense of trepidation. It was rare for him to feel so helpless and his heart ached for those in unbearable agony. Treville was moving amongst his men offering reassurance and comfort. Aramis could see that the Captain's presence was a balm that temporarily lifted the spirits of the injured. A handful of women were cleaning up the more superficial lacerations ready for stitching. And that, he thought, was something useful he could do. He caught sight of Jacques huddling miserably in a corner and walked over to see how the boy fared.

He uncorked the flask he was carrying and held it out. "This will help." He gently took hold of the boy's arm. The break was half way between the wrist and the elbow and was only marginally displaced. "I am going to straighten the bones and then splint your arm. I won't lie to you. This will be painful."

Jacques nodded hesitantly, his eyes wide with fear.

Aramis snagged the sleeve of one of the townswomen. "Can you find two straight pieces of wood the length of his arm?" he asked.

"Of course, Sir."

"Aramis," he said with a smile. "And your name?"

"Paulette."

"Well, Paulette, we are all grateful for your help."

"Least I can do for the King's Musketeers," she said. "You look after the boy and I'll be right back."

Aramis adjusted his hold on Jacques arm. "Ready?"

Jacques whimpered and bit his bottom lip. Aramis took a steadying breath before bracing one arm on Jacques' shoulder and pulling smoothly with the other. The young man's face grew even paler with a green tinge. Aramis grabbed a bowl, waiting patiently while he vomited up the contents of his stomach. The smell mingled with all the other unpleasant odours in the room making him want to retch. He swallowed convulsively to stifle the impulse, tasting bile at the back of his throat.

"There," he said soothingly, offering a cloth. "The worst is over."

Still, he knew for many of the men the worst was yet to come. His thoughts flew to his brothers, worried that he still hadn't seen d'Artagnan. How would any of them cope if their youngest had perished in the blast? It didn't bear thinking about but the more time that passed the more likely it was to prove to be the reality.

TMTMTM

The muscles in Athos' legs and arms shook with exhaustion and his back ached from bending over to pick up the rubble. Yet, his pace never slackened. He was starting to fear that if d'Artagnan was underneath the never-ending pile of debris that he would have succumbed to lack of air, assuming he had survived the initial blast.

"Faster," Porthos urged. The large man worked tirelessly, lifting blocks of stone as if they weighed nothing.

Athos moved a large piece of wood to reveal the toe of a boot. "We were right. There is someone under here." It energised him in a way that nothing else could and he turned his attention to the debris covering the man's face. "D'Artagnan," he breathed, seeing the familiar face and dark hair now liberally coated with plaster and dust. He carefully removed a large piece of glass from his brother's face, noting with relief that there were no burn marks.

"Is he still breathin'?" Porthos asked frantically.

Athos shuffled forward on his hands and knees and pressed his fingers to the pulse point on d'Artagnan's neck. He swallowed a sob and turned his eyes to Porthos, uncaring if his friend should see the moisture gathering there.

"Athos?" Porthos reached out a shaking hand. "Tell me he's alive. Athos?"

Tbc


	3. Chapter 3

I should have said when this is set. It is in Season Two after Bonacieux's death but before Rochefort makes his move on the Queen and Aramis. Thank you for the wonderful ongoing support for this story.

 **Phoenix Rising**

 **Chapter Three**

Athos brushed the tears of relief away from his eyes with the back of his hand. "He lives," he said, his voice thick with emotion. He saw an identical look of relief on Porthos' soot-streaked face. "He's unconscious. We must free him as quickly as we can."

"Any sign of injury?" Porthos asked, moving a plank of wood from d'Artagnan's chest.

"Cuts and bruises and," Athos shifted some of the debris covering the young man's legs, "a broken leg by the look of it."

"Do we move him? He could 'ave other injuries we can't see."

"You're right. Fetch Aramis."

Porthos straightened up, brushing dust from his breeches. He looked over toward the entrance. "Lemay's here." He turned back to Athos with a frown. "So's Constance."

"Stay here." Athos moved quickly to intercept the physician, gratified to see that there was also a procession of royal pages carrying baskets of medical supplies. "Doctor. Thank you for coming."

"Of course. The King was horrified to hear of the accident. How many are wounded?"

"Too many. They're in the refectory." He pointed the way. "Aramis is doing what he can to help them but most need a surgeon's care." He caught Constance's arm to stop her following the doctor. "You shouldn't be here."

"Where is he? Where's d'Artagnan?" she asked, her voice shaking. "I know he was on duty here today? Is he hurt?"

Athos gently drew her into a corner, standing between her and the spot where d'Artagnan lay. He looked down at her sympathetically seeing the lines of worry creasing her brow. "He was injured but we don't yet know the extent. He was buried under the rubble. We have only just managed to free him. He isn't awake yet."

"I need to see him," she made to push past him, her face pale but determined.

"Go back to the palace," Athos advised. "There's nothing you can do for him."

"I came to help and I'm not leaving." She looked up at him, he bottom lip trembling. "Besides, I'd rather he woke with me beside him. Take me to him."

Athos sighed and nodded. "This way." He led her over to where Porthos stood protectively next to their youngest brother's comatose body.

Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp. "He looks…"

"He is still breathing," Athos said before she could finish the thought. "We were just about to get Aramis to examine him. Lemay has more serious cases to deal with. Many of the men have severe burns."

Constance scrambled over the rubble, uncaring if it ripped her dress, and grasped d'Artagnan's hand in both of hers. She sat next to him and brushed strands of hair out of his eyes, steadfastly refusing to cry. He needed her to be strong.

"I'll get Aramis." Porthos squeezed Athos' shoulder before striding away.

Now that the immediate need to act had gone Athos began to notice a throbbing pain in his left hand and pulled off his glove, staring uncomprehendingly at the blood coating his skin. He wiped away as much as he could, finding a deep gash on his palm. No matter how hard he struggled he couldn't recall getting injured and he certainly wasn't going to waste anyone's time in tending to it. He pulled his glove back on and pushed the pain to the back of his mind.

TMTMTM

Aramis lifted the tweezers out of the hot water, returning to Laurent's side. The Musketeer sat with his back to the wall, his hand hovering indecisively over his chest and the multiple splinters buried in his body.

"Don't touch them. I will remove as many as I can," Aramis said gently. "Some have gone deep and will have to be cut out. We can't risk leaving any of the wood under the skin."

Laurent swallowed and gave a brief nod. "Do what you must."

Aramis glanced over at Dr. Lemay who had stood for a minute in appalled silence as he took in the scope of the disaster. He had given a brief bow in Aramis' direction before moving to Pascal's side. The young man gave no sign that he was aware of the doctor's presence, not even flinching when Lemay examined his ruined legs. Aramis was left with the disturbing thought that he would probably not survive the night.

His hands were steady as he grasped the first shard, pulling it out in one smooth movement. Laurent gasped and his hands balled into fists but he made no other complaint. The second was harder, being more deeply embedded. A small whimper escaped from his patient's lips and Aramis murmured an apology. He was reaching for the third when Porthos burst into the room.

"Aramis, we've found him."

"He's alive?" he asked, his heart rate quickening.

"Aye, although he isn't conscious. Athos wants you to come examine him. We don't want to move him until you say so."

The tension in Aramis' shoulders and neck began to dissipate as relief coursed through him. "I will be there as soon as I can, my friend."

"Go," Laurent said stoically. "My injuries can wait."

"He was buried, Aramis. We had to dig him out."

Aramis stomach clenched at that news. He cast a grateful look at Laurent. "I will be back soon." He stood, washed his hands and then turned to Porthos. "Lead the way." He stopped to speak briefly to Dr. Lemay. "One of the injured is still in the yard. I am going to assess his injuries as best I can."

"Don't take too long and see if you can find Madame Bonacieux. She came with me and now she is no-where to be found."

"Constance is here?" He saw the assent on Porthos' face. "She is with d'Artagnan?"

"Wouldn't leave him."

When they returned to the yard Aramis got his first good look at the damage. The armory was completely destroyed and all the windows on that side of the garrison had been blown out. He looked at the gaping hole in the wall, trying to imagine what it must have been like for the men caught in the blast. His gaze was inexorably drawn to the group of people huddled around a body lying mere feet from the ruined entrance to armory. He put a hand on Porthos' arm. "Is he…does he have any burns?"

"None that I could see."

Aramis let out a shaky breath. He went round to the far side so as not to disturb Constance although he captured her gaze and her attention. "Dr. Lemay is calling for you. There is nothing you can do here and there are many men inside who need care. Will you trust us to look after d'Artagnan?"

Her grip tightened on d'Artagnan's hand and then she took a deep breath before nodding. She bend over to kiss him on the forehead. "I love you, d'Artagnan."

"Be warned that there are some gruesome injuries," Aramis said. "If you don't think you can cope no-one will think less of you."

"They are coping with their injuries. How can I do any less?"

Aramis bowed his head in acknowledgement, waiting for her to move away before beginning his examination. "Only very minor burns on his arms," he said. "His right leg is broken. Let me check his ribs." He pressed on d'Artagnan's chest moving from the top to the bottom. "His chest was crushed. There are at least five broken ribs, two dangerously close to his lungs." He slid a hand behind d'Artagnan's head. "He has a lump the size of a goose egg and a laceration." He held up his hand which was stained with blood.

"Why's he still unconscious?" Porthos asked.

"It could be the head trauma" Aramis looked at his brothers without flinching as he delivered the bad news. "Or, while he was buried, he could have been deprived of air for long enough that his brain no longer functions."

Tbc


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you for the wonderful support for this story. I promise not to leave you with a cliffhanger today! I hadn't intended to explore the cause of the explosion but a few people have been speculating so I hope you don't mind if I head off in that direction to round out the story.

 **Phoenix Rising**

 **Chapter Four**

After hours of clearing rubble from the yard every muscle that Athos possessed ached and his injured hand throbbed unmercifully. It was too dark now to do anything further so he sought out Aramis in the infirmary. "Come and eat," he said.

Aramis tied off the last stitch holding closed a long laceration in Thierry's leg. "Give me a minute." He smeared salve over the wound and reached for a bandage.

They had moved the more seriously injured to the infirmary once the threat of the fire had finally passed. Athos looked around the room. Five of the beds were occupied. Those with lesser wounds had been treated and sent to rest in their rooms. Coffins had been constructed for the dead. They would be buried in the garrison cemetery in the morning. Athos closed his eyes as a wave of exhaustion washed over him and contemplated the somber ceremony to come.

"D'Artagnan?" he asked, shaking himself out of his lethargy.

Aramis' hands faltered. "No change. Lemay set his leg but there is nothing more that can be done to improve his condition. Constance is with him." D'Artagnan was in his own room so that Constance could have privacy to care for him.

"He will wake up." It had been hours since Athos had been able to take the time to check on his brother. During that time his guilt had been steadily building. If only they had found him sooner he might now be awake and starting on the long road to recovery. Rationally he knew he had done nothing wrong but he was too tired for rational thinking and had, instead, embraced the guilt like an old friend.

"I fear what we will find when he does wake," Aramis said wearily. He tied off the bandage and gave Thierry a wan smile. "Come back tomorrow and I will check the wound. Now, go and rest."

"Thank you."

"Come." Athos gently took hold of the medic's arm. "You are almost asleep on your feet."

"As are you, I think."

They walked out into the yard, the smoke still lingering in the air and catching in the back of their throats. Aramis paused to look around. Where the armoury had once stood there was now nothing more than a blackened hole. However, most of the rubble and debris that had littered the yard was now gone.

"You have been hard at work, my friend."

"We had a lot of assistance." He prodded Aramis into movement again. "Serge has laid out food in the kitchen."

It would be days before the refectory could be scrubbed clean and ready for use so they had to make do with what they had. The kitchen was pleasantly warm with the welcome aroma of fresh bread and roast chicken. Serge had also laid out cheese, cold ham and apple pie for dessert.

Aramis looked at the food and sighed. "I'm not really hungry."

"You're exhausted but you need to eat." Athos unthinkingly pulled off his gloves, hissing in pain as the sudden movement pulled on the cut marring his palm. Aramis immediately grabbed his hand, turning it palm up.

"What happened? Why has this not been tended?"

"Everyone was busy," Athos said defensively.

"So you would risk infection?"

"You can look after it once we've eaten." Athos pulled away and went in search of a bottle of wine.

Aramis slumped down on a stool and reached for a loaf of bread. When Athos returned and poured two glasses of wine Aramis drank eagerly. His throat was parched and scratchy and the wine slid down easily. Athos cut some ham and laid it on a slice of bread. He was ravenously hungry after hours spent in physical labour.

They ate in exhausted silence, each lost in his own thoughts. Athos couldn't rid himself of the sight of d'Artagnan lying so still when they uncovered him. It was a total contrast to the nervous energy that normally surrounded the boy. He never kept still, always eager for the next challenge. The prospect of never seeing d'Artagnan's smile again or hearing his laugh was more than Athos could bear and he felt tears building in his eyes. In the past year the Gascon had grown as close to him as a brother and he wasn't ready to lose another younger brother to premature death.

Thomas' murder by his beloved wife had almost destroyed him. He had survived thanks to an unlikely friendship formed with Aramis and Porthos. If they were to lose d'Artagnan in such a way it would be the end of all of them. It was easy to picture their reactions. He would turn to the solace of the bottle, drowning his sorrows and picking fights until one day someone would put him out of his misery. Aramis would seek the comfort of the church, drifting further and further away from them. Porthos, who always seemed so invincible, would throw himself into battle with a reckless disregard for his own safety.

With an effort he brought his thoughts back to the present. They hadn't lost d'Artagnan yet and, with God's good grace, the boy would wake up. He wasn't a religious man, having seen too much wickedness in the world to believe in God's love, but tonight he was willing to pray for a miracle. When he looked over to his friend he saw Aramis' shoulders slump and his eyes drift closed. "You should go to bed."

"Once I have checked your hand and looked in on d'Artagnan."

The door opened causing Athos to start in surprise, so lost had he been in his own thoughts, and Treville walked in. The Captain looked as if he had aged several years over the last few hours. "I thought I was the only one still awake." He nodded his thanks when Athos poured him some wine.

"How bad is it?" Aramis asked. Having spent most of his time with the wounded he hadn't yet had time to process the scope of the disaster.

"The armoury is destroyed. It will cost the King a large sum of money to rebuild and restock." He drew in a shuddering breath. "The human cost is of more concern though."

Aramis nodded. "Six died in the blast. Pascal succumbed to his wounds earlier this evening. The burns were so severe he would never have walked again. I think he just gave up. Lemay had to amputate Gerard's arm. He's tough so I believe he will survive although his career as a soldier is over. We have three others with broken bones and less serious burns. In all a dozen men were injured to a greater or lesser degree. At least half will take many weeks to recover enough to be fit for duty."

"What about d'Artagnan?" Treville asked.

"Still unconscious," Aramis said sadly.

Treville picked up a chunk of cheese and ate without any obvious enjoyment. "Will he live?"

"He is in God's hands." Aramis reached for his crucifix. "All we can do is pray."

"What could have caused this?" Athos asked, unwilling to dwell on something he couldn't influence.

"I've been wondering that myself. No-one was working in the armoury today. The powder was properly stored and there was no source of fire that could have ignited it accidentally."

"You believe this was sabotage?" Athos asked, having come to a similar conclusion.

"It seems the most likely explanation. People come and go all day; tradesmen, messengers and soldiers from other regiments. Not all are watched closely while they are within these walls."

"Who would profit from this?" Aramis asked.

"Spain is the most obvious suspect. We know there are agents in Paris and the King makes no secret of the fact that he is edging ever closer to a war. What better way to strike first than to destroy the Musketeer regiment?"

"We must take precautions," Athos said. "We are at our weakest now and that could be exploited."

"I've doubled the guard and no-one gets in without being searched and escorted."

"We will make enquiries tomorrow to find out who did this. The men who killed our brothers will be made to pay." Athos traded glances with Aramis, seeing the same determination on the medic's face. They would track down the culprits and blood would be the price for this attack on their home.

TMTMTM

Constance held tight to d'Artagnan's hand. His breathing continued to be uneven with the rise and fall of his chest being the only sign that he was still alive. His normal healthily tanned skin was ashen and grey.

The last month had been a turbulent time for them. First she had declared her love then her husband had been murdered, leaving them free to be together. They'd decided to wait a respectable time before marrying and she had been counting the days until they could finally be together as husband and wife. They had spoken of having children and of what their lives would be like. It had been a beautiful dream until, in an instant, it had been ripped apart.

Dr. Lemay had been kind even though he had warned her to prepare for the worst. As the long hours passed she was finding it harder to hold onto her optimism. Aramis, Athos and Porthos came by regularly to check on them, and their assertions that d'Artagnan would recover helped to buoy her spirits.

She smoothed the sheet over d'Artagnan's chest taking a moment to rest her hand over his heart. "Fight, d'Artagnan," she murmured.

When she looked back at his face she saw that something had changed. There was rapid movement beneath his stubbornly closed eyelids. Hope blossomed and she leaned forward eagerly.

"Come on," she urged. "Open your eyes." His fingers twitched within her grasp. "It's time to wake up," she urged more forcefully.

A weak moan escaped his lips and he grimaced in pain. Her stomach lurched in a mingling of hope and fear and she clung to his hand as if it was a lifeline. His eyelids fluttered and cracked open. She waited with bated breath, afraid to move in case it shattered the spell. When his eyes opened she felt tears running down her cheeks even though she knew she was grinning like a lunatic.

"What…?" he whispered, before starting to cough harshly. The movement pulled on his broken ribs and his face twisted into a mask of pain.

"Keep still," she said, running a soothing hand through his hair. "I will get you some water."

She let go of his hand only long enough to fetch a cup of water. After allowing him a few sips of the cool liquid she set the cup down and looked at him searchingly. "Do you know who I am?" She asked the question with trepidation. He might be awake but both Aramis and Lemay had warned her that deprivation of air could have affected him to the point of brain damage.

He looked at her quizzically, one eyebrow raised in surprise at the question. Then, a confused look settled on his face. "What happened?" he asked hoarsely. "Why am I in bed?"

"There was an explosion. You were hurt." She could tell from the shallow breaths he was taking that his chest was causing him pain. "D'Artagnan, what's my name?"

He huffed the smallest of laughs. "Constance. Your name is Constance."

Tbc


	5. Chapter 5

I promised some answers in this chapter but I was wrong and the story hasn't quite progressed that far. There will be one chapter after this one.

 **Phoenix Rising**

 **Chapter Five**

The funerals were over; seven plain wooden coffins consigned to the cold unforgiving earth. Athos lingered after the others had gone, waiting for Treville to acknowledge his presence. The Captain had taken the loss hard. It was one thing to lose men in battle and another to be attacked in your own home.

"I have been summoned to the Palace," Treville said, putting on his hat and stepping reluctantly back from the graveside. "The King wants an accounting."

"Of the loss of men or the loss of weapons?" Athos asked.

"I'm sure he's concerned about both. I leave you in charge while I'm gone. Start emptying the armoury. See if anything is salvageable." Treville began to walk back toward the garrison to fetch his horse.

"The men need rest after yesterday." Athos fell into step with his Captain.

"They can work in shifts. We have been excused duty at the Palace for the next few days. The Red Guard has taken over responsibility for the King and Queen."

"We should be there." Athos had no time for the Red Guard who, to his mind, were nothing more than thugs. He also didn't like the idea that this catastrophe was allowing Rochefort to grow ever closer to the royal couple. "What if this was just the first salvo in a war on French soil."

"All the more reason to find out who was behind it."

"We're compiling a list of everyone who visited the garrison in the hours leading up to the explosion. Porthos and I will follow up any leads."

"What about Aramis?"

Athos grimaced. "We can't get him to leave the infirmary. He stayed there last night and I don't think he slept."

"He won't do anyone any good if he keels over."

"He might listen to you because he certainly isn't listening to us," Athos said in frustration. He understood Aramis' driving need to be useful but sometimes their self-appointed medic forgot to take care of his own health.

"I will speak with him when I return. How is d'Artagnan?"

"Very weak. He's mostly lucid but that's all. I'm going to check on him now. Constance has returned to the Palace to ask the Queen for a leave of absence."

They reached what was left of the yard and parted company. Athos looked towards the gateway where four Musketeers stood on duty. Other able-bodied men waited around in small groups no doubt speculating about the cause of the explosion. He beckoned over one of the veteran soldiers. "The Captain wants an inventory done in the armoury. Anything that can be saved should be put to one side. Pick two men to work with you. I'll see that you are relieved in an hour."

He then approached one of the recruits. "Go to the infirmary and help Aramis. Get him anything he needs and make sure he eats."

"Yes, Sir."

Confident that everything was in hand he went to d'Artagnan's room, meeting Porthos who was on his way out. "How is he?"

"Drifting. Half the time he didn't know I was there."

"We'll ask Lemay to examine him again. I know that Aramis is still worried about him. He went through a traumatic experience and it will take time for body and mind to heal."

"This waiting is hard," Porthos said with a scowl. "What do you need me to do?"

"Talk to the men who were on guard duty yesterday. I've already asked them to write down a list of who they saw but it wouldn't hurt to ask them questions. They might recall something they'd forgotten. Find me when you're done and we'll see if we have any suspects."

Athos opened the door quietly and stepped into the room. D'Artagnan's eyes were closed but from the lines of pain marring his face he clearly wasn't resting peacefully. He hesitated, and was on the point of leaving, when the young man opened his eyes. D'Artagnan's breathing was shallow, undoubtedly in deference to his broken ribs. It was also uneven, a fact that worried Athos although he kept that worry from his face. He almost winced in sympathy when d'Artagnan made the slightest of movements and groaned, biting his bottom lip and turning ashen.

"I can ask Aramis to bring you a pain draught," Athos offered.

"He gave me one not long ago," d'Artagnan said, his voice so low that Athos had to strain to hear it.

"It doesn't seem to have helped."

"Trust me, it has."

For the first time Athos recognised the true depth of d'Artagnan's suffering and he silently railed against his helplessness. Every instinct screamed at him to offer his brother some comfort but there was nothing he could do. "I should leave you to rest."

"Wait." D'Artagnan's hand reached out weakly. "No-one will tell me what happened. I know there was an explosion." A haunted look appeared in his eyes accompanied by deep confusion. "Were many hurt?"

"You should concentrate on your own recovery." Athos was unwilling to dwell on the scale of the tragedy that had befallen them.

"That's what Porthos and Aramis said. I need one of you to tell me the truth."

Athos could see that the Gascon was becoming agitated and rested a hand on his shoulder to calm him. Recognising, however, that he wouldn't be able to sidetrack the young man he pulled over a chair and began to talk.

TMTMTM

The morning passed in a blur of activity. At noon Athos again extracted Aramis from the infirmary insisting that the medic needed to rest and eat. Aramis was equally insistent upon examining Athos' hand and he agreed in return for a promise that Aramis would leave the wounded in the care of Lemay for a few hours.

They sat down to a meal of mutton stew and were soon joined by Porthos.

"I've spoken to everyone who was 'ere before the explosion and I think we might have a lead." He gulped down a mouthful of wine. "All that talkin's thirsty business."

"What did you find out?" Aramis roused from his stupor to ask.

"You know how our meat's always delivered by Monsieur Boucher? Well, yesterday he sent someone different. It was a young man, with dark hair and eyes, who kept very quiet to avoid drawing any unwanted attention. He was seen arrivin' but no-one can recall seein' 'im leave."

"Interesting. Serge, do you recall the young man who delivered the meat yesterday?" Athos asked.

Serge limped over and ladled out their stew. "He said old Leon had hurt his leg and that's why he couldn't make the delivery himself. Didn't say much else."

"Did he have an accent?" Athos leaned forward eagerly.

"Didn't notice one," Serge said apologetically.

"You think he might be responsible?" Aramis asked.

"It's worth checking out. Porthos and I will head over there once we've eaten."

"I didn't pay much attention to him," Serge said. "Perhaps if I had this wouldn't have happened."

"You're not to blame," Athos said firmly. "Whoever did this planned it very carefully."

TMTMTM

"We're here to speak to Monsieur Boucher." Athos favoured the young woman behind the counter with a brief bow.

"My father's resting. He's injured his leg."

"This is Musketeer business so I must insist," Athos said politely but with an edge to his tone that conveyed his resolve.

"Very well. This way." She wiped her hands on her apron before holding open a curtain that was covering a doorway.

It led, Athos discovered, to the small living quarters behind the shop. A man he recognised as their regular butcher sat with his leg propped up on a stool.

"Musketeers here to see you, Papa," the girl said.

Boucher tried to rise but Athos waved him down. "Please don't get up on our account."

"I heard what happened at the garrison," Boucher said.

"That's why we're 'ere." Porthos stood in the doorway with his arms crossed. "Tell us about the young man who made your delivery yesterday."

"Why are you interested in him?"

"Just answer the question," Porthos growled.

"Monsieur Boucher, we have reason to believe the explosion was not an accident," Athos said with a quelling glare at Porthos. "We are trying to identify any strangers who visited the garrison yesterday."

"You think he was involved?"

"Possibly."

"I don't know much about him. I mean I've seen him around and when I hurt my leg…"

"May I enquire how you were injured?" Athos asked.

"I was hit by a wagon. Patrice was passing by and stopped to help. When he realised I couldn't walk he offered to help with my deliveries for a few days."

"That was very noble of him," Porthos said.

"I was grateful for the help, Monsieur."

"Do you know where we can find him?" Athos glanced at Porthos and gave a small shake of his head. He understood why his friend was being so intimidating but now wasn't the time to terrify their only reliable witness.

"He drinks at The Falcon. That's where I first met him. He was newly come to Paris I believe. I've no idea where he lives."

"Did he ever discuss politics?" Athos asked.

"Not that I heard. You don't think he used me to get into the garrison?" Boucher had paled considerably as the import of their questions finally took root.

"It seems likely. I suspect your injury was no accident either. When did you last see him?"

"This morning. He came to say he'd found work and wouldn't be able to help anymore."

"Convenient," Porthos said.

"You have been very helpful, Monsieur. If you see this man again please send a message to the Musketeer garrison. Ask for Athos. I'm sure the Captain would consider a reward for such useful information."

"Yes. Yes. Anything I can do."

"D'you think our quarry's still in Paris?" Porthos asked as they left the shop.

"I don't know but I intend to find out."

Tbc


	6. Chapter 6

I never intended for this story to be so long and I am grateful for the wonderful reception it received. This is the final chapter.

 **Phoenix Rising**

 **Chapter Six**

"Where are we goin'" Porthos asked as Athos set off with determined strides.

"The Spanish Ambassador's residence."

"There is no Spanish Ambassador. Not since Perales was murdered."

"I'm aware of that." Athos quickened his pace. "However, his household wasn't disbanded. Maybe someone there knows this Patrice."

"You think that's his real name?"

"Not for a second."

"What about the tavern?"

"If he has any sense he won't return there. He must know we'll be asking questions."

It didn't take long to reach the residence which was looking the worse for wear with all the windows smashed and anti-Spanish slogans daubed on the walls.

"I'm surprised anyone stayed," Porthos said.

"Where else would they go? I doubt if any of them have the money for passage back to Spain and there is always the possibility Philip will send another Ambassador." He knocked on the door and, when he received no answer, tried the handle. "Locked. Let's try the back."

They found the kitchen door open and guarded by a young man holding a pistol. He looked at them with unconcealed terror. Since Emilie had disbanded her 'army' the streets had been quieter but it was still a dangerous time to be Spanish.

"We mean you no harm," Athos said, keeping his hands away from his weapons. "We are King's Musketeers. Who is in charge here?"

The guard's hands were shaking so badly that it was doubtful he could hit them had he chosen to shoot. "Esteban," he said.

"Can we speak to him?" Athos asked. "We are here on the King's business."

"Wait here."

They waited as patiently as they could while the man went inside, returning a few minutes later with a grey-haired man who radiated a sense of command.

"I am Esteban. This house is in my care. What can I do for the Musketeers?"

"You heard about the explosion at the garrison yesterday?" Athos asked.

"Word travels quickly."

Athos noted that there was no expression of sympathy or enquiry as to the effects of the blast. "We seek a man known as Patrice, although it is likely his true name is different. He is lately come to Paris."

"Why are you asking me?"

"Because we believe he's a Spanish spy who was sent to destroy the regiment," Porthos said bluntly, taking a threatening step forward and laying his hand on the hilt of his sword. "You'd be wise to cooperate with us."

"I know of no such man."

Athos narrowed his eyes, sure that they were being lied to. "How do you think the people will react to news that it was Spain that perpetrated this atrocity? Men died. Good men."

"Do you threaten me?"

"Yes." Athos also moved closer. "Do not look to the Musketeers for protection if you withhold vital information."

"You would leave us to the mob? I thought Musketeers had honour."

"Blowing up the garrison wasn't very honourable," Athos said drily. "Tell us what you know." Involuntarily his hands closed into fists. He was very close to losing all control and could see from Porthos' face that his friend was seconds away from violence.

Esteban looked from one to the other before his shoulders slumped. "We did not know of his intent. I would have stopped him had I known."

"I believe you. Tell us where we can find him." Athos consciously forced his muscles to relax. "No blame will attach to you if you help us."

"He has lodgings on the Rue Raynouard. Number eleven. Be careful of him, Senores. He is man who lives for violence."

TMTMTM

Aramis tried to rest but his conscience wouldn't allow him to sit idle while there were people in need. He made his way to d'Artagnan's room, quietly opening the door and peering inside. His young patient was awake and staring morosely at the wall. Aramis gave a fond smile and entered the room.

"How do you feel?"

"My chest feels like a horse landed on it," d'Artagnan said on a weak breath.

"It will improve given time," Aramis assured him. "For now it's important that you not breathe too deeply." He sat in the chair by the boy's bedside.

"Don't worry. My ribs remind me every time I forget that piece of advice."

"And your leg?"

"Throbbing." D'Artagnan looked at him pleadingly. "Will it heal?"

"Dr. Lemay assures me that it will."

"I don't remember getting hurt."

"That is not surprising. You sustained a severe head injury."

"I remember the heat and the noise then…nothing." He drew in a shuddering breath. "Who would do such a thing?"

Aramis leaned over to brush the hair out of d'Artagnan's eyes. "Athos suspects the Spanish. He and Porthos are following up on a lead." He frowned when he saw d'Artagnan's eyes screw up in pain. "Does your head hurt?"

"Everything hurts," d'Artagnan said piteously.

"I can give you something to relieve that." Aramis stood up but was stayed by d'Artagnan gripping his wrist weakly.

"You will tell me when Athos and Porthos return?"

"You have my word, my friend. Now, rest and heal.

TMTMTM

Rue Raynouard was in one of the least desirable neighbourhoods and was a perfect place for a man seeking anonymity. Athos ignored the surreptitious glances they were receiving from the ragged men and women who frequented the street.

"We don't know which room he's in," Porthos said.

"No and I'm not sure I want to confront him in a confined space."

"We wait?"

"Yes."

Twenty yards down the street was the entrance to an alley. It gave them a good view of the building while allowing them to keep out of sight. The street was not particularly busy. It wasn't a thoroughfare so only those living there or visiting residents traversed it. The wait was hard. They both felt that they were close to their quarry and each felt a driving need to obtain revenge for the deaths of their comrades.

It was late in the afternoon before they saw Patrice walking down the street. He passed them without glancing in their direction. Athos stepped out, sword and pistol drawn, confident that Porthos would be beside him.

"Halt in the name of the King," he called.

Patrice's footsteps faltered and he looked over his shoulder. "Musketeers," he snarled.

"Surrender," Athos said, walking slowly forward. "You are under arrest on suspicion of causing the explosion at the Musketeer garrison."

Patrice's lips turned up in a cruel smirk as he turned to face them. "It saddens me to see that any of you survived."

"You don't deny the charge?" Athos' pistol didn't waver. On the periphery of his senses he was aware that everyone else was moving quickly to get away from this confrontation.

"Deny it? Why would I? It was my finest work."

"You bastard!" Porthos growled. "Why?"

"Everything I do is in service to my King," Patrice said, his hand straying towards his pistol.

"Don't," Athos said warningly as he tightened his grip on the trigger.

"I do not recognize your authority, Musketeer." Patrice reached for his pistol, his hand not reaching the handle before two shots sounded. Both balls caught him squarely in the chest. Blood bubbled out through his lips as he collapsed to his knees.

Athos rushed forward and caught him before he could fall further. Patrice turned a blood stained smile on him before his eyes closed and he went limp.

"That was too quick and easy," Porthos groused. "He deserved to suffer for what he did."

"I agree but we have taken a dangerous man off the streets. Who knows where he might have struck next."

TMTMTM

Six weeks later Treville stood in the armoury with Athos by his side. He looked around at the racks of swords, pistols and muskets. "It's hard to believe that a few weeks ago this was nothing but rubble."

"Aramis says that rebuilding it is part of the healing process."

"The men seem to be recovering well physically, although I have heard that a few are still having nightmares."

"That will pass in time." He knew that d'Artagnan was still experiencing disturbed nights. His memory of the event had gradually become clearer and it had been a shock to the young man to realise how close to death he had come.

"The King has received a letter from Phillip." Treville led the way outside. "The King of Spain writes that he deplores the needless violence and denies any involvement in the plot."

"Do you believe him?" Athos looked across the yard to where d'Artagnan was engaged in a gentle sparring practice with Aramis while Porthos shouted encouragement. The splint had been removed from his leg two days earlier and Lemay had pronounced his ribs sufficiently healed for light exercise. It warmed Athos to his core to see his little brother up and about again. The visceral fear he'd experienced when they had dug the boy out from under the debris had left its mark and he was more determined than ever that no further harm should befall him.

"Louis chooses to believe him," Treville said diplomatically.

Athos bristled at that. It was wrong that the King so lightly forgave their enemy although he wasn't blind to the politics. To accuse the King of Spain of complicity would have pushed the two countries to the brink of war and Athos had no wish to visit that fate on anyone. He had experienced too many wars and had seen the damage done to the ordinary citizens and the countryside.

He gazed at a section of the wall that was still blackened by the blast. It was a lasting visual reminder of what had happened. Some scars would remain despite their best efforts, but their brotherhood endured and that, at the end of it all, was what mattered.

The End


End file.
